Rainstorm
by Sapphire Iota
Summary: Alone after Sherlock's fall, Mycroft sits in his office and ponders life without Sherlock and Moriarty. 'The world had to have one genius to keep it going… but humanity could not cope with three of them.' T for dark themes.


**A/N**

**Fandom; Sherlock**

**Characters; Mycroft Holmes**

**Pairings; None, although can be interpreted as Mycroft/ Moriarty/ Sherlock if you want.**

**Warnings; Trigger warnings for suicide, major character death. Reichenbach spoilers.**

**Summary; Alone after Sherlock's fall, Mycroft sits in his office and ponders life without Sherlock and Moriarty. 'The world had to have one genius to keep it going… but humanity could not cope with three of them.' T for dark themes.**

**I don't even know.**

**This was supposed to be innocent, a reflection on Mycroft character and the troubles he and Sherlock have, and then it turned into this.**

**This is my first foray into the Sherlock fandom, so have patience with me please! I really shouldn't be writing now with the amount of homework I have (I'm probably going to fail my Science internal because of it) but this wouldn't let go. At four in the morning, when I should be going to sleep, this happened. So I briefly broke my hiatus to type up this.**

**I hope you like it, and please don't forget to review. Huge thanks to my lovely beta Hoodoo for all her help and patience :)**

**-Love, Saph**

There used to be three of us, he thinks.

Mycroft Holmes reclines in an armchair in his stuffy wooden office, his expensive shoes crossed neatly on the footrest as he sips tea.

His life was never easy. Could any _normal _person imagine, just for a second, being bombarded with so much information- not just from the outside world, but inside their own head too- every second of the day?

No. They couldn't.

Every thought is an explosion, a whirlwind in his mind. For example, this lovely view of the Thames out the window immediately conjures up images of crime scenes on the riverbank- other waters around the world- sipping wine on expensive yachts as they drift through grey and dreary London- a constant stream of data and ideas and images- memories- dreams-

And in turn, each thought triggers more snapshots, recollections, ideas, expanding at an incredible pace until he thinks his mind will implode under the pressure, the barriers falling.

He wonders what would happen then. Would his thoughts keep expanding exponentially, multiplying, black tendrils searching hungrily for company, connections, data-data-_data_?

But no matter what Mycroft thinks of, no matter how far his mind travels, his thoughts always return to his little brother. Sherlock. The chubby face with black curls and beautiful eyes, gazing up from the cot. The scowling teenager with an armful of the books, separate from the rest of the world. The genius detective, physically an adult but emotionally still a child.

Mycroft believes they were always separate. The three of them. There were only three people in the world who thought this way and fought for their sanity; Mycroft, Sherlock, and Moriarty.

Pain spikes in his forehead and Mycroft reaches for aspirin, wincing. He dissolves it in his tea and takes another sip.

Perhaps Sherlock was right. Perhaps there _was _something wrong with them. They would never fit in, always be alone, because the universe had chosen to taunt them that way. They were needed, but never really wanted. The world had to have one genius to keep it going… but humanity could not cope with three of them. And so they had fought to be the last one standing, and Mycroft had paid won at such a terrible, terrible price.

_My, My, Myc! _Says a little voice at the back of his mind. He sees a little boy with his face alight, running towards him. _Look at my experiment, My!_

Sherlock would not blame him, he knows. He had done what was needed, played the game.

But there were some games that could not be played alone.

He takes another sip of the tea, relishing the bitter taste on his tongue. It swirls around his cultured mouth. He can almost feel the poison, the poison he himself had placed there, seeping through his gut, leaving behind little trails as it winds its way to his weary heart.

Not long now.

The world has to have one genius to keep going, but from today, it would have to manage alone.

He does not want to live without Sherlock.

And, to a strange extent, he does not want to live without Moriarty either, without the danger and puzzles and thrill of the chase.

What is the point of continuing in a world that was made to shut him out? This is a world of slow motion, controlled by creatures as different from him as rats and mice. Sherlock and Moriarty gave him excitement, twists and turns, a splotch of coloured ink in a black and white still frame. Now it is all just… blank.

He wonders if anyone will mourn him, care if he is gone.

Oh, his parents will cry, losing their children so soon after one another. But they didn't really know him, not really. He shut himself off from that part of the world once he learnt that it was too quiet, too mundane for him.

That Detective, the one at Scotland Yard. What was his name again? Oh, yes, Gregory. He would go to Mycroft's funeral- if he ever found out. Mycroft was confident that the hellish problems the Inspector was going through at the moment would be enough to distract him from ever finding out the truth.

Then there was the good, honourable John Watson.

John, in the deep caverns of his heart where monsters lay, would be glad Mycroft was gone, glad that he paid for what he had done to Sherlock and the secrets he had spilt. But on the surface? On the surface, Mycroft does not think John Watson will feel anything at all. He will be numb.

Numb. Like Mycroft's legs are going, now. He cannot feel anything of them. The rest of his body is functioning fine, though. He can hear the first soft drum beats of rain pattering on the rooftop. Cold droplets begin to snake down his expansive, bullet proof windows.

He wonders if he should be thinking something profound and philosophical at this moment, but all he can think is that Sherlock's eyes always reminded him of a rainstorm just about to break.

He sees his brother in a million moments, lit by candlelight, pulling books of a shelf, perched on a windowsill in that ridiculous coat with black curls flopping on his forehead and a dangerous look in his eyes. He sees Sherlock running away, learning to swim, solving a case, falling out of trees. And Mycroft was always there to catch him.

_My, My, Myc!_

He thinks of the little boy who he read storybooks to, taught to think, read, write, laugh, how not to love in a world that prided itself on caring. He thinks of one night when they were both young and their parents fought, and Sherlock snuck into Mycroft's room. He remembers how they didn't say a word, just stared at the ceiling together, and Mycroft put one arm around Sherlock and held him close. He does not want to live without that little boy.

In the end, he decides, life is not about the end. It is the sum of it, the moments that happened in between. It is the things you regret and the things you would not change for the world.

And when you add Mycroft's life together, all his memories and secrets and experiences and all that makes him _Mycroft_, it equals one thing: Sherlock.

Because he was Mycroft's brother, but he was also the only person who has ever mattered. The only person he has ever loved.

Once there were three of them. Mycroft, Sherlock, Moriarty; each a genius, each broken, each a star blazing so fiercely they burned themselves out in an intricate dance, no less beautiful for the fact they were dancing to their inevitable fate.

_Three-_- and Sherlock and Moriarty fought. Mycroft was rushing, hurrying, knowing that this was the endgame and trying to forestall it. Then Moriarty pulled the trigger, and he killed not just himself, but all three of them.

_Two-_- and it was inevitable now. Good needs evil to fight, fire needs fuel to burn, and two out of three is the sun without the sky. The sun that twinkled upon its fellow stars so far below, as Sherlock spread his black wings and fell from the sky like a raven with its wings clipped. Or perhaps a fallen angel. They have always chosen hell over heaven.

_One-_ and he is the last one, a peaceful man in a chair with the rain pouring down his windows, drowning the outside world. Inside it is warm, but he is falling to oblivion just as Sherlock did, in a flash of light.

Mycroft Edwin Holmes reclines back in his comfortable leather chair and closes his eyes. The numbness has stolen upwards from his legs. He fancies, for a moment, that he can feel each part of himself shutting down one by one.

_Rest at last._

His straight mouth tilts up in a slight, genuine smile.

Inside is warm and light. The soft lamps of his office fill the room with a homely glow.

Outside, the storm batters his window, tearing the world down. The fresh, clean droplets whip past the glass and soar up, up, through the rain and clouds, up and far away to a land where the sun shines bright once again.


End file.
